At the Museum

Here squats, entombed and euthanised,
Minutiae from vanished lives,
Arranged in cases made of glass
And stagnant air caught from the past.
The watchers file by in rows,
With faces bowed and voices low
In tones of reverence for that
We once considered bric-a-brac.
The whispered echoes seem surreal,
The atmosphere funereal,
As though these common objects now
Have grown into a sacred cow,
And what, as kids, we threw away
Are treasured works of art today.